


Mind and Heart

by HoneyBeeWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Attempted Murder, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Car Sex, Chairs, Cliffhangers, Detectives, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Diary/Journal, Dirty Talk, Doctor John Watson, Doctor/Patient, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Exes, F/F, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, Happy Sherlock, Healing, Heavy Angst, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson Needs A Hug, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John is a Mess, Kidnapping, London, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Murder Mystery, Mystery, POV John Watson, Partners in Crime, Past Domestic Violence, Pillow Talk, Possessive Sherlock, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Scotland Yard, Self-Discovery, Sex, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, So Married, Talking, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Threats of Violence, Tragedy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyBeeWatson/pseuds/HoneyBeeWatson
Summary: Scotland Yard has sent psychiatrist John Watson a new patient: the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Molly Hooper, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 60
Kudos: 116





	1. Session One

"Hello Mr. Holmes, I'm John Watson. My clients usually just call me Dr. Watson, though. Do you have any questions for me before we begin?" 

The man sitting in front of him seemed to be completely at ease, relaxing into the red leather chair as if he had been familiar with it for quite a while. His legs were spread lazily apart while he bounced his right foot repeatedly with impatience. While some might believe this stance was an open one, Dr. Watson recognized it as somewhat of a challenge. Sherlock Holmes certainly did  _ not _ want to be in therapy today. 

"Mr. Holmes?" Dr. Watson gently pressed after a few seconds of silence had passed. Sherlock removed his gaze from the window directly beside him that made the office's fourth wall and set it upon Watson. The calm exterior could not extinguish the burning frustration and annoyance that danced within Sherlock Holmes. 

"Isn't that your job,  _ Doctor _ ?" He avidly responded. His voice matched his physical demeanour almost exactly.  _ Impressive self-control _ , Watson thought to himself. 

Sherlock turned back to the window, fiddling his bottom lip with his hand. A nervous or thinking habit? Watson intended to find out. He loved a good mystery and this man was definitely that. 

"Alright. What brings you in here today?" Watson continued.

Without turning to look at him Sherlock practically spits the answer back at him. "Scotland Yard."

"Can I ask why?"

"Don't you already have this information in a file somewhere?" Suddenly an irritated gaze was upon him. Watson froze in a new sort of shock. How could eyes hold so many colours? Blue, gray, green...  _ Focus _ .

"I prefer to hear your side of things if that's alright." That got him an eye roll, but Sherlock still held the entrapping gaze. 

"I'm a consulting detective for the local police department. I've been walking them through their cases for years and now they want to make sure I'm of sound mind. Why, you ask? Because they're morons. Implemented required regular therapy checks for all consultants or immediate termination of assistance. Which might be well for all the other useless idiots but for me it's a waste of time."

Watson was impressed at how much Sherlock could say in one breath. This was definitely the path to take to get the man to talk. "I can understand how this would frustrate you. Have you ever been to therapy before?"

"Once. As a child. Didn't last long." Back to the short speech. Watson makes a mental note to discuss Sherlock's childhood in the near future. 

"How have your recent cases been going? With the department?"

A fire seemed to ignite behind Sherlock's eyes. "I thought it was fine."  _ It. _

"What does the department think?"

"They're always stumped on something - nothing new. How are your cases, Dr. Watson?" Avoidance.

"Fine, all fine." Watson has expected this turn of speech. A man like Sherlock is uneasy talking about himself. He's the investigative type - Sherlock asks the questions. 

"Do you have any more questions?" Watson asks gently. 

Sherlock seems confused at his reaction. Was he expecting frustration? Anger? His pale but strikingly, multicoloured eyes squinted at Watson as if he was a new and mysterious specimen to be carefully examined under a microscope. 

"Tell me, Doctor, do you think I am insane?"

"No, quite the opposite actually." The man's eyes widened ever the slightest in surprise. Watson wondered why.

"So am I free to go then?" His black curls softly bounced forward as the detective leaned forward with anticipation.

"You can leave whenever you like. However, if you mean 'is this appointment considered complete in that you may return to work'? I'm afraid not. It's only been ten minutes and this meeting isn't a measure of sanity. It's to discover any hardships you may have, mentally speaking, and to give you the tools to work through them. Mental health is not black and white."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, eyes squinting even harder. Watson had become a barrier between the detective and his work. Sherlock's work seemed to be his passion. In other words, Watson was now prey.

"And what about you?" Sherlock asked. 

"What do you mean?"

"I notice all, Doctor. For example, the occasional tapping of your fingers despite your efforts to remain still - along with the dark under eyes and the lingering stench of smoke. Not a smoker, for sure, definitely a gambler. A serious one at that, your addiction seems to have chased you into living at your workplace, yes, a workaholic. Your nightclothes seem to be peaking from behind your desk. A bit rushed, are you? Must have been a late night. And no ring I see, but something tells me you were engaged once. And by something I mean the residual mark from the ring that hasn't yet gone away. Your observance is admirable, Dr. Watson, but don't for one moment think you understand anything about me."

It took a moment for Watson to speak. Sherlock seemed to be used to this reaction, however, because he immediately went back to staring at the window. "I see why you're a detective" was the only thing he could push out after several silent seconds had passed. That earned him a chuckle.

"Yes. Quite a simple skill, deduction, yet it seems I am one of the rare few who are capable of using it."

"Brilliant."

Sherlock harrumphs quietly. Watson makes another mental note to investigate the consulting detective's reaction to compliments.

"I think this session can be considered complete. Please understand, though, Mr. Holmes.. an impressive intelligence is remarkable but it's not a reflection of good mental health. The two are independent of each other, you see."

Sherlock stands up and straightens his suit jacket in a professional manner. His body appears lean, even fragile in its length, but even from those small movements, Watson can see the concealed strength just bulging through. "Thank you for the chat, Doctor. I assume I can return back to work without a bother until next year?"

"Actually..." Watson began. Sherlock froze in place. "It is my professional recommendation that I see you at-least-once weekly until I am ready to give the go-ahead - and yes - this is going in my report to the department. Do Thursdays at noon sound good to you?"

"Fine." The man angrily grumbled as he slammed the office door behind him. Watson let loose a deep breath he had unknowingly been holding. What was this feeling? Intimidation? Intrigue? Why did this case feel different than all the rest?

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	2. Exploring Entropy

It had been a week since John Watson had met his new client, Sherlock Holmes.   
  
It had also been a week since John Watson had been able to keep his mind from thinking about his new client, Sherlock Holmes.   
  
Even his nightly gambling routine was interrupted by the thought of the mysterious detective. It was as if Sherlock had been able to see directly into his soul - he was known and there was  _ nothing _ that could be hidden. Watson knew his and Sherlock's job was about noticing the little things. He assumed they also both had a similar drive for wanting to solve mysteries and help others. Yet, while Watson investigated the emotional side of things, Sherlock was investigative about the physical. Perhaps they were like two opposing sides of the brain - each doing the job in its own, unique way. Or maybe, Sherlock was the mind and Watson was the heart in the body that was this corrupt world. John supposed the spine connecting the two was Scotland Yard - attempting to truly be a backbone for society.    
  
Watson stopped himself. He was overthinking again. It was only eleven in the morning, but he had come into work early to ensure the office showed no sign of his unprofessional lifestyle. He also reminded himself to visualize the door to his office as a portal into professionalism. No daydreaming, no overthinking, no to anything that was not strictly business.  _ No. Sherlock. Holmes. _   
  
This tactic worked for about five seconds before thoughts of the man swooped in once more like a powerful wave crashing into a carefully constructed sandcastle on a lonely beach. Watson forced himself to look outside - to distract himself - only to see the colour of Sherlock's eyes swirling in the spring sky. John shook his head in frustration and laid his head against the cool, white wall.    
  
_ What is happening? _ John Watson has had invasive thoughts before, of course. Many people have. But this was his very first time having an invasive thought take the form of a person- and it was very unprofessional.  _ Sherlock Holmes is my client, _ he thought to himself,  _ my client. _ _ So why can't I keep my mind off him? And his eyes. And that clean, crisp suit. And the muscles bulging underneath th- _   
  
A knock at the door. John froze, looked at his watch. Twelve on the dot. He straightened his beige cardigan and headed towards the door. He opened it with a gentle smile and gestured his hand toward the leather chairs. They were now situated by the window since the doctor had noticed Sherlock had an affinity for peering outside during the first session.    
  
Sherlock Holmes squinted his eyes dubiously. The doctor paid closer attention this time to his movements, noticing the way the detective scanned the room for every fragment inside it. Watson suspected there was not a speck of dust this man could not find.    
  
Sherlock slowly took a seat in the chair he seemed to like the most, the south-west facing one on the right. Watson followed only once Sherlock was comfortable, staying a large distance. He did this as a precaution for every client to keep them from feeling cornered or threatened. This is also why Watson always arranged his office to have open access from chair to door, so the comfort of possible and simple escape was in the subconscious of his patients. Safety and comfort were a high priority in Watson's line of work, as well as trustworthiness.    
  
Sherlock immediately set his sights out the window. Watson struggled slightly not to follow suit - the lake in center view was glistening brightly and seemed more beautiful than usual today.    
  
"How has your last week been, Mr. Holmes?" Watson began, trying not to look too hard at the elegant blue scarf wrapped around the neck of his client. It seemed to go perfectly with the long, dark overcoat he was wearing today. Watson was in awe of how Sherlock utilized his wardrobe - and he was quite outdone, not to mention a bit embarrassed, by his own comfortable, knitted vest and khakis.    
  
"Fine." Completely disinterested. This had been expected.   
  
"Do you have any questions for me before we start?" Watson cringed internally as he remembered the last time he asked this question to Sherlock - but it had become a habit over the years to start his sessions this way.    
  
Silence. Squinting of the eyes. Fingers that had been tapping silently on the chair arms stilled. "Why did you not clear me?"   
  
Valid question, as all questions were. "Let me just say; there's nothing wrong with you. At all. I just wasn't able to get to know your situation well enough last visit to feel secure in letting you return to work. I'm just looking out for your best interest."   
  
"No offence, Doctor, but you know nothing about me. How could you know keeping me from work was in my best interest? It was quite the opposite."   
  
"How so?" Watson pressed gently.    
  
"It's what I do."

"What else do you do? Besides work?"

Irritated eye-roll. Finger tapping intensifies. This was apparently a touchy subject and Watson felt something ease inside him knowing he wasn't the only workaholic in the room. However, this was a negative reaction and Sherlock did not seem comfortable enough to continue on this discussion path.

"How about this," Dr. Watson continued, "I let you return to work, but you continue to see me twice a week. Also, you'll have homework. A journal, actually, that you only have to write in once a day - even if it's only a single word. What do you think?"

"Hmm..." A few seconds of silence, but the forceful tapping had stilled. Sherlock looked like he was playing chess in his mind with an invisible opponent. "Alright." He said mischievously. The way he looked at Watson like he was a minuscule, entertaining game... the doctor didn't know how he felt about that. 

"Right, then-" Watson began.

"But..." the detective interrupted with a sly smirk at the corner of his lips. Why did they look so soft? "I have a condition of my own, Doctor."

"Alright." It was getting a bit hard to swallow. 

"We meet Tuesdays and Thursdays at noon. On Thursdays, we meet out of the office. I took the liberty of reading up on your services and I find it would be beneficial to me to have a weekly session at my favourite restaurant. We can meet for lunch."

_ Breathe. You're the doctor, you're in control here. _ "Splendid idea, looking forward. Before I forget.." Watson shakily stood up to go to the maple wood desk in the corner by the door. Opening a drawer, he fumbled through several colours of notebooks until he found one that seemed right. It was a beautiful shade of blue and seemed a bit more durable than the rest. Only after John had pulled it out did he realize it matched Sherlock's scarf exactly. Too late to change is now. He walked back over to the window setup, as business-like as possible. 

"This is your companion for the week. Try to write out your views and feelings about each day. You can write as little or as much as you want - even if it's just a word. Alright?"

Sherlock nodded once. Watson noticed he had barely looked out the window the entire session. Was this progress? They had barely even begun.

Doctor and patient both stood at the conclusive tone in his ending question. Watson could see the eagerness practically vibrating through Sherlock at being able to return to work. A quick handshake and quick murmurs of confirmation of the next appointment mixed together and soon Watson was alone with his thoughts once again. 

It has been two sessions and Dr. Watson barely knew his client. This is how he preferred to do things, slowly and patiently - letting the patient decide when and how to communicate and open themselves up. Then, Watson could accurately diagnose the individual struggles and effectively start treatment plans. This had made him a favourite psychiatrist to visit over the years and a collection of awards to show for it. Problem was, in the room with Sherlock Holmes - Watson began to feel like roles were reversed. While this could normally be a danger sign for manipulation, he knew there was none. Sherlock was honest but so very closed. So much seemed to be buried inside him, and John could tell it was getting harder and harder to keep inside. Dr. John Watson began to prepare the office for the next patient as Scotland Yard's original email to him sung through his mind like a siren reminding him of the depths at which he was jumping into Sherlock's case.

_ Dr. John Watson, _

_ Our department regularly hires consultants, but one, in particular, has led us to instill a set of new rules and regulations for doing so. We fear the man we are sending to you for a thorough investigation, Sherlock Holmes, might be dangerous. He has been a great asset to us for quite some time, but we've begun noticing worrying signs of poor anger management - to the extent of random bursts of violence, a lack of focus, and maybe even signs of drug use and addiction. This man not only works for the department but unbeknownst to him, he is a great friend of mine. Please do what you can to help him.  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Greg Lestrade _


	3. Locked Doors

Watson held the thick, blue notebook in his hands with care.  _ This is a sacred space for someone to release their emotions and thoughts and this is such an important part of therapy. This is sacred and important... _ he couldn't do it. The words the psychiatrist repeated to himself over and over again failed him as he burst into fits of laughter. 

Sherlock seemed surprised at the reaction. Thankfully though, he didn't seem hurt - as Watson had feared he might be if he failed to contain his emotions. Which he had. Terribly. John was deeply ashamed of himself as he struggled to quiet down and focus on the words Sherlock had scribbled over the past few days. 

**Friday: 21 February 2020**

Boring.

**Saturday: 22 February 2020**

Also boring.

**Sunday: 23 February 2020**

Still don't see the point of this.

**Monday: 24 February 2020**

I work with the biggest lot of MORONS

Typically, Watson's patients began writing more heartfelt passages as time went on. With his new client though, they seemed to just get more frustrated. Delightfully so. Perhaps this journal was acting as a sort of outlet in Sherlock's own, small way. 

Dr. John Watson had asked Mr. Lestrade to keep in contact with him about Sherlock's progress. Hesitant about letting the detective return to work, the inspector trusted Watson's instructions and did as requested. The doctor received several emails a day from Scotland Yard and they all summed up to the same result: Sherlock Holmes was  _ not _ getting better. But... he was also not getting worse. It was as if the downwards spiral had ceased and the detective was stuck on a long, tedious staircase - unsure of whether to keep climbing or to fall down. 

It was a rainy Tuesday, and Sherlock had once again appeared exactly at twelve. As in, the precise moment the clocks had shifted their hands to signify that noon had arrived. While the doctor appreciated his patient's punctuality, he wandered about potential cases of obsessive-compulsive disorders or even possible past traumas that could enforce a need for control. Being a bit late or early is perfectly human. Appearing exactly on time, though, is either a self-disciplined habit or a mentally forced one. Why was Sherlock so precisely punctual? It seemed only time would tell.

Watson had done a few breathing exercises to calm himself from his very unprofessional fit of laughter. He apologized profusely only to get a small smile from his client, a sheepish sort. It was almost as if Sherlock couldn't help himself but be amused.

"Right," Dr. Watson began, "let's start from the beginning." He coughed for good measure. "I understand taking on a new habit can be boring, especially a prescribed one, but I am quite amazed at you for keeping up with it regardless. I believe this exercise will honestly help you in the long run."

Sherlock rolled his eyes then turned to the window. It was a gentle rain, not odd for London, but it was still peaceful to watch. Especially from the top floor of a thirteen-story building. 

John continued, knowing his client was still actively listening despite his uninterested stance. "There is a point to it, which I believe you'll see in time. And you never have to show me your journal, you know. This space is for you - all yours."

"What if I already have my own space?"

John was a bit surprised but hid it by looking out the window himself. This would take the pressure of a stare of his patient so he felt more open to talk. "Oh? Do tell me about it, if you like."

From his peripheral vision, Watson caught an annoyed set of eyes side-glance at him. "Yes. It's called my mind. Mind-palace, if you will. It's where I store everything I need." His hands came together in a sort of temple fashion. It seemed to be very important to Sherlock that he keeps everything, very carefully, inside. Why?

"What if you run out of room in your mind-palace?" Watson asked curiously. 

"Not possible," Sherlock answered quickly and dismissively. 

"Why?" Watson kept his voice extremely gentle and reasonably curious. Being pushy and accusing was a sure-fire way to get individuals to stop revealing themselves. 

"I only store essential information, and if need be, I delete any data that I have carefully stored when it is no longer useful. Mind you, it is a palace. It can hold plenty more than you might think." Sherlock's posture was concerning him today. He was oddly still; no tapping of the hands or feet had occurred even once during this session. Sherlock's legs were closed tight and his arms, usually spread on the armrests, always remained close to the chest. Something was wrong.

"What do you deem non-essential?"

"Anything non-essential to me and my work."

"Hmm... considering your line of work... do you have any files stored on baking a cake?"

This got him a scoff. "Non-essential. I have a landlady who bakes constantly."

"Alright, where do you store extracurricular topics - like knowledge on the solar system?"

"I work for the police department, Doctor, not in space."

"Right." Watson tried not to chuckle. Sherlock was admirably a very, very logical individual. "Where in the palace do you store relationships?"

"Non-essential. I exist alone."  _ Not good. _

"Where do you store feelings, like happiness and sadness?"

"Non-essential."

"Love?"

"Non-essential."  _ Very not good. _

Sherlock squirmed slightly; it was time to stop pressing. Watson decided to immediately switch to a topic of discussion Sherlock seemed to enjoy.

"It was very interesting learning about your mind-palace. Thank you for sharing that with me. Now, though, I'm curious about your work. What is it like being a consulting detective?"

The physical reaction was immediate. Sherlock relaxed slightly in his shoulders and his arms returned to the armrests as turned to face Watson completely - openly. Even the smallest of movements made the biggest of differences to a well-trained psychiatrist.

"Dull. As you saw earlier, I work with morons. Complete idiots. They don't know which way is up and which is down."

"Oh? That must be frustrating."

"Very."

"Why do you do it, then?"

A few seconds of silence. "The cases themselves are entertaining to me, sometimes even a challenge. That's hard to come by when you have a mind like mine."

"I see." Silence. Watson continued to prompt his client to talk. "I remember from our first session that a recent case didn't go so well. Has it been closed?"

"Not yet."

"Do you want to talk about it? This room does not exist in reality, so to speak. You are safe to discuss anything you wish without is leaving this room. Try to see it as a physical extension of your mind palace. Complete confidentiality."

Sherlock squinted at him, probably trying to judge whether or not to trust him. "There's a man..." 

Suddenly a loud clap of thunder shook the building and the power went out. Watson was perplexed. The storm wasn't even that bad, it couldn't have knocked out the grid. 

"So sorry." Watson apologized, "The backup generator should start up any moment now." He retrieved his cell from the pocket of his khakis and launched the torch app. The stormy sky cast a relaxing, blue hue over the darkened space, but it was still too murky for an appropriate session. What was taking the generators so long? Bloody things.

Watson glanced at his now silent patient, who had been so close to opening up about what had been bothering him. He expected to see annoyance but was shocked to see Sherlock gripping the armrests of the chair tightly. So tightly that his long, slender fingers had gone white. Every muscle in the body of the detective was tense.  _ Fight or flight _ , Watson thought to himself on instinct. "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

No reply. Watson quickly got up to find candles in a cabinet of his desk. There was no time to assume probable causes of the intense, negative reaction. It could be anything, the loud noise, the darkness. He rushed to do the only thing he could, to create that safe, normal environment for Sherlock once again. The first step in doing this was to bring back the light. 

John has had many of his clients go into panic attacks during sessions but for some reason, this one felt... different. It was almost as if Sherlock's panic extended to him in some way. Watson fought to remain calm and focus on his task. He quickly got several candles lit and set up around the office. 

The storm was worsening fast and thunder was rumbling seemingly every other minute. Watson returned to his chair beside Sherlock, who seemed to have calmed but still carried a defensive stance.

"Sorry again, the generators-"

"-are not coming back on." Sherlock interrupted. 

"Sorry?" Watson was astonished. How could he know this?

"Doctor, I need you to trust me. I don't have time to explain how, but I know you're an army man, and I know you have a handgun in your desk. You need to lock the door immediately and bring out that weapon now. We are in mortal danger."


	4. A Soldier's Duty

"Mr. Holmes... I assure you everything is fine. We are completely safe." This was not an uncommon occurrence with some of his patients. Past traumas could heavily and dangerously affect the present and it was because of this fact that Watson was saddened at Sherlock's reaction to the power outage. "Here, let's just... tell me about your co-workers." He positioned himself into a fully attentive position, acting as if the lights had never even gone out - a meager attempt at normalcy. 

Sherlock wasn't having it. His eyes were anything but still; darting back and forth as if they were trying to watch every part of the room at once. At Watson's dismissal of his warning, Sherlock proceeded to practically leap towards the desk and pull out the gun. There was no way he could have known where it was, or that Watson even had a weapon. Knowledge of the impossible, however, was not the issue. The issue was that Watson's client, who was showing possible symptoms of severe PTSD, now held a deadly weapon in the midst of a blackout... _ and John couldn't stop him _ .

"Mr. Holmes-" Watson tried reaching out to him but the man was moving too fast. Sherlock loosened the clip and counted the bullets in the automatic as if he had done it a billion times. When he was satisfied, Sherlock held the gun expertly at his side, removing the safety and leaving his finger outside of the trigger zone. Watson was unsure whether to be impressed or frightened. Lestrade's words echoed at him in the most untimely moment; 'w _ e fear the man we are sending to you for a thorough investigation, Sherlock Holmes, might be dangerous'.  _ "Sherlock, please. Please just stop and talk to me a moment. Please."

Miraculously, he stopped. Sherlock looked down at Watson, being a few inches taller, and sighed. "I don't have time for this. He's here."

"Who do you think is here? Talk to me." Watson begged.

The detective took a fighting stance by the door, positioning his back against the wall. Meanwhile, Watson internally battled phoning the police. 

"Yes, do that." Sherlock's eyes glowed as if he had just recalled something. 

"Do what?" Watson replied, appalled and confused.

"Ring the police, immediately." 

"How-" 

"Your fingers were twitching towards the phone in your pocket. You're quite easy to read, John. Honestly, the sooner the better. Quickly now!"

"But-" He began. 

"Oh, for the love of-" Sherlock dug in Watson's pocket for the cellular device. Watson froze in shock. He watched as Sherlock dialled the police. "This is Holmes. Tell Lestrade to get me a team at 1121 Maple Way. He's here." He hung up and tossed the phone back into Watson's hands. 

The doctor was stunned, teetering the line of reality and fantasy. What was real? What wasn't? How could he diffuse this situation?

"Breathe, Doctor, everything will be fine. I've been expecting him to come after me for a while. I just didn't expect it to be here."

Watson let out a shaky breath of air. "Shouldn't I be the one calming you?" Adrenaline had forced its way through his veins and the doctor felt more alive than he had for some time. He grabbed a pen off of the desk and wielded it as a sort of miniature sword and took the wall opposite Sherlock. "Now can you tell me what the bloody hell is going on?"

"The case I've been working on for weeks - the main suspect's name is Archie Dennis. They call him Ghost Man. This is his game. Cut the power, the phones, isolate a group, take them out. We haven't been able to catch him because he leaves no trace. No marks. No drugs. No fingerprints. Nothing. It's as if he sucks all the oxygen from the building. But now, now we get to see how it's done. And put an end to the deaths, of course."

"Why is he after  _ you _ ?" Watson asked incredulously. How had his workplace - the most normal building in London - become an active crime scene? 

"Oh, I left him a message," Sherlock replied as if he had simply left a reminder for a roommate to pick up milk from the shop. 

"What? What kind of message? How?" Watson asked incredulously. 

"Well, I insulted his work, obviously. He's undoubtedly a perfectionist. How else was I supposed to get his attention?" Sherlock was completely nonchalant about the situation, which was very unnerving.

"You-  _ what _ \- why would you want a killer to come after you??" Watson struggled to speak and gripped his pen tightly to calm his ever-tightening nerves.

"How do you catch a slippery fish? You chase it into your net. Keep up, Doctor. He's on his way." Sherlock was practically smiling. Was he really excited about this?

"Mr. Holmes, I really-" This had to end, this wasn't happening. If this really wasn't a power outage, they needed to wait - safely - for the police to arrive.

"Please, call me Sherlock. We're a bit beyond typical business matters, don't you think?"

John nodded, reluctantly. "John."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock gave John an odd look. What was that squint of the eyes, that little tilt of the head? "You alright?" His voice became very soft.

"Yes. I've been through my fair share of battles. You?"

Suddenly Sherlock smiled. "You fight those battles with pens?" He laughed. John couldn't help but join in. He blamed it on the adrenaline, but Watson felt very... good. Alive. 

A scream broke through the darkness from down the hall. Watson immediately surged forward only to run into Sherlock's outstretched arm. "She can't be helped. We need to wait." He whispered harshly. Watson had completely forgotten anyone else was in the building, and he was not going to risk gambling people's lives on the chance that the police would reach them before he could.

"Those are my coworkers - my friends! I won't leave them to die while I hide in my office." Watson whispered back.

"Be reasonable. We need to catch him off guard and let him come to us, not run into-"

Watson twisted Sherlock's arm just enough to quickly duck under and open the door. Despite attempting to make the move as painless as possible, he heard a small gasp escape from his patient's lips. A twang of guilt echoed through Watson's limbs like cold lightning, but he kept on. Violence was never the answer, but Watson was a bit beyond reason. His only thought was the force that drove him into danger was to help those in need. 

Running in the darkness of his workplace was easy. Watson had worked there for years and every twist and turn of the halls had become all too familiar. Heart racing, he followed the screams. It led him to the receptionist of the clinic floor.  _ Molly _ . Who would attack someone so sweet? She brought desserts every Monday to lessen the hardships of returning from a relaxing weekend. She sent cards and gifts on every holiday and birthday. What monster could attack someone so kind? Watson wouldn't let it happen.

Even in the darkness, Watson could see a tall figure bending over a smaller one. The doctor used all his force to barrel into the looming attacker, knocking him off his feet. "What the-" the man grunted as he struggled to stand. Watson used his military training to keep him down, straddling him in a way that allowed no escape. It wasn't hard, he seemed quite weak despite being about a foot taller than John. Watson felt around in the dark until he found the criminal's neck and quickly wrapped his hands expertly around - intending to knock him out until the police arrived... but something was in the assaulter's hand. Was he going to hit him with it? Watson braced himself, knowing he just had to hold on a few moments longer. He pressed his thumbs harder onto the man's airway passage. 

No blow came. Instead, something was placed on his face. Watson knew instantly it was a breathing mask, and some type of air was being forced into his throat. Watson tried holding his breath, knowing he couldn't let go to save himself or the assailant would escape conscious and angry. 

Force, however, requires energy. Energy, in turn, requires oxygen. Watson couldn't shake free of the device and he couldn't hold his breath any longer. He unwillingly sucked in a deep breath of air. Immediately the doctor felt dizzy and weak. The room tilted and he fell off the attacker. He heard coughing from what seemed miles away as the criminal spit verbal abuse at him. Watson weakly tried to remove the mask but to no avail. His arm felt like lead and wouldn't obey simple commands. His breathing began slowing and Watson knew he was going to die from asphyxiation. He lazily turned his thoughts to Molly and Sherlock; hoping they were okay and would escape safely. 

Thunder shook the building once more. That's when it came. The weight on top of Watson vanished along with the mask. With shallow, slow breaths Watson began breathing in clean air - his body greedily took in the oxygen.

There were pounding sounds and grunts somewhere in the room. Watson couldn't see, couldn't move. He just wanted to sleep. Somewhere far away police sirens were sounding off. Red and blue seemed to dance in the highlights of Watson's vision. His head fell to the side and he closed his eyes, ready to surrender. 

Silence had returned until someone began saying his name. "John, wake up. John!" They were desperate, trying to shake him into consciousness. A mask was put on him again. Watson tried to remove it, his arms were already a bit stronger - but only enough to lift from the ground and reach for the source of air. Hands took Watson's wrists and pinned them to the ground. "No," they scolded gently. "It's okay, just breathe." He recognized the voice, that softness. Sherlock. 

Watson's mind ever-so-slowly refocused on the world around him. He was still being pinned, but gently, for his own good. Police and nurses covered the room like ants. The flashlights seemed brighter than the normal light that usually flooded the room and Watson couldn't help but squint as he tried to take more of the situation. A tall, lean man was being led out in handcuffs. He had absolutely no hair on his face and he looked very, very angry. He glared back in Watson's direction one last time before he disappeared with the police. 

Sherlock, still atop him, was conversing with a white-haired man. Watson caught a few snippets of conversation, "-concentrated krypton...  _ honestly  _ Greg... Kr on the... he be okay?"

Without warning, the weight on top of Watson eased up and his wrists were released. His body seemed to be lifted and placed on a board. "Everyone's okay, you saved her. Don't forget our lunch on Thursday, Doctor." Sherlock whispered into his ear. With those words Watson knew everything was okay and relaxed, finally letting himself be taken by sleep. 


	5. Leaving the Nest

The groan escaped him before he could adequately compose himself.

“I know,” his ex-wife from beside the bed “I’m probably the last person you want to see.”

“Why are you here? “Watson’s voice cracked sleepily. His head was pounding. Flashes of the day before came through with every throb: Sherlock, storm, intruder, mask. Was everyone alright?

“I’m still your emergency contact,” Mary spat at him. “Might want to change that.”

“You didn’t have to come,” He retorted. This had to be the worst awakening John had ever had - even worse than waking up to gunfire in the trenches. A small thread of guilt slithered through him like a snake. It wasn’t right to compare his ex-wife to his war days. 

“Yes, well, believe it or not, I was worried. We were married for three years, John.”

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s just been a rough go. Thank you for coming.” Watson covered his face with his hands, attempting to rub his eyes awake. He knew the exhaustion he was feeling was from the drugs. What did Sherlock call it… krypton? Watson had nearly been suffocated to death and Sherlock Holmes saved him. Actually saved him.

Watson dropped his hands and looked around the room, squinting from the light. He was being held in a small, yellow hospital room with a single, small window. For a moment he imagined Sherlock looking out of it, turning to him with that hint of a smile. Watson found himself smiling at the thought. 

“What?” Mary asked at his expression. 

Watson blushed. “Nothing. Can I leave now? I’ve probably missed so many appointments already. What time is it? Nevermind.” He practically jumped from the bed, stumbling at first from the slight dizziness. He would heal swiftly, but the first few steps were always the hardest in recovery – Watson knew this from experience. 

“John, honestly.” Mary rolled her eyes. “Lay down. You need to rest.”

“I have rested. All night apparently.” He stumbled to a chair in the corner of the room that held his shoes and neatly folded clothes in a translucent drawstring bag. Grabbing his things quickly, Watson went to change in the washroom - closing the door behind him. “You can go now if you like.” 

“Actually...” John froze at Mary's tone. This was her classic _‘I have an idea, but you won’t like it_ ' voice. “I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch? It’s nearly noon.”

“Mary…” he started. Their run had been alright, but so full of pain. He couldn’t bring himself to think about everything that had happened. In fact, Watson knew he was still healing from it all. He even saw his own therapist twice a month. Psychiatrists needed help sometimes, too, and he wasn’t ashamed of that fact. “Thank you for the offer but I really can’t. Besides, shouldn’t you be getting home to Ben?” 

She laughed emptily. “He’s probably lazing about. He’s a poor excuse of a husband if I’m being honest. I would rather spend time with you. I need a friend, John. After you left, I became so lonely. Life was unbearable. After everything you put me through, you could at least have lunch with me.”

Watson knew what she was doing. He could hear it now; the guilt-tripping, the gas-lighting, the manipulation. How had he been so blind to it before? All these years… John shook his head violently, forcing himself to shake the rising guilt and shame away. It’s not your fault, he reminded himself, you don’t owe anyone your freedom. _It’s okay_. 

“I really need to go.” John Watson shut his mouth quickly before he began apologizing to his ex-wife. For what? There was no need to be sorry. _It’s okay to say no. It’s okay_. Watson threw the hospital gown on the bed and left the room hastily, strongly pushing down any tears that fought to rise up.

* * *

Dr. Watson quickly found out that his office building, Hal Tower, had closed down for the day due to ongoing investigation purposes. He spent the rest of the night sending apology emails to his clients and rearranging his appointment book over Chinese take-out. It was definitely going to a busy week. The psychiatrist was trying to catch up by squeezing patients in every time slot available – even going as far as to schedule some of his clients in an overlapping fashion in case of cancellations. Watson even began considering skipping lunches but then remembered his clients would only get the best from him if he kept himself at peak health. Lunchtime belonged to him alone.

After a few hours, everything was organized and prepared. It had gotten dark way too quickly. Watson went to lay in bed but quickly found himself blankly staring at the ceiling. He desperately wanted to gamble. It was an incessant need, a pull like no other. Illogical? Yes. Necessary? No. But this was how addiction was. Understanding the problem didn’t necessarily help, though. ‘ _There is no mind in addiction'_ , Watson recalled from his own psychiatrist, “ _it’s a hole in the heart, a black hole, trying to suck in everything to fill its own emptiness.”_

Before he could change his mind, Watson took a natural sleep supplement. This was how he forced himself to stay home when he had the willpower to do so. Knowing it would be unsafe for others if he went out impaired was a surefire way to keep himself from gambling. It was going to be a busy week and the doctor couldn’t afford a late-night right now. He tried to turn his thoughts to anything other than the feeling of exhilaration that came from pressing a button on a slot machine. Usually, Watson thought about things like food or recent medical studies, but this time his mind was infiltrated by that of another man. Sherlock smiling at him, laughing at his words, looking at him the way that he does. Watson immediately began to relax - enjoying this new distraction. John’s eyelids grew heavier as he replayed the memories in his head over and over again. 

It wasn’t until morning that John realized with a heavy dread that he had actually put himself to sleep by daydreaming about one of his clients. It made him extremely uneasy to realize how irresponsible he was becoming. Watson had always been dedicated to his work and nothing had ever wavered that steadfast focus until now. The situation suddenly became abundantly clear. John Watson could no longer ignore the way his face heated up at the thought of Sherlock's figure, the way he wanted to envelop himself in Sherlock's calming voice, and the way he wanted to spend more and more time with the man that had seen through to his soul. This was too unprofessional, unethical, inappropriate. Watson might be considered the best in his field by others, but he knew when to recognize that he wasn’t the best for a specific client. Watson would tell Sherlock today, at lunch, that their sessions had to come to an end. 

After a quick breakfast, Watson went on his normal morning walk around the lake. He enjoyed routine and stability, even though it very quickly became boring. Physical activity remained one of the best ways for Watson to get a clear mind while also steadily improving his strength and stamina. He forced out any thought of Sherlock Holmes and instead tried to focus on the nature around him. The morning held a heavy humidity after all the rain, gently spreading a warm brightness over the park. The water was a deep blue, reflecting the sky almost like a mirror. It carried the outline of green trees, the grey of the clouds. The colours all blended together in the water majestically. It was breathtaking. Almost like... _No_. 

Watson ran faster, trying to run from his own thoughts. Why did everything remind him of the detective? Was this obsession? Mind-control? Perhaps even... feelings? Watson had never had such powerful feelings about anyone before. Even with Mary, Watson just went along with the flow of things. He had grown to love her, of course, but this was something different altogether.

John ended the run early and returned to his apartment for a quick shower and coffee. There were two sessions in the morning before lunch with… _him_. Watson intended to be at his best today for all his patients. 

The day flew by, the sessions passed seemingly in minutes. A middle-aged woman dealing with her husband’s infidelity and a teenage boy with sociopathy. Every case is special and unique, each equally as important, but Watson couldn’t help but feel a guilty excitement for meeting with Sherlock once again. It was difficult not to pull out his watch or phone to check the time. This was a good example of why he kept a clock off his office walls. Looking repeatedly at a clock while a client should have your full attention was a recipe for failure in his business. It would be difficult to open up and heal if someone doesn’t feel they are a priority and important.

The excitement Watson had carried all day about seeing Sherlock again slowly but surely turned into nervousness. It grew heavier with each step to the restaurant, a place called Speedy’s. He had arrived several minutes early, fifteen to be exact. He took the empty table by the front window. The décor in the café was homey. Bright green walls in a restaurant were… a bit different to say the least, but they seemed to fit the atmosphere perfectly somehow. Watson took a deep breath, closing his eyes. If comfort had a smell, it would be this place. 

A waitress with red hair came up to him. “Fancy a cuppa?” She asked cheerfully.

“Please,” Watson responded kindly. He would have ordered a drink for Sherlock, but John had only ever offered him coffee... what did Sherlock like? Who was Sherlock? Watson barely knew anything about this man and yet the feelings continued to grow. It wasn’t logical. 

Tea was brought quickly. Watson sipped from the cup slowly as he stared outside, trying to calm himself. 

“John.” A familiar voice said from behind him. Watson turned to see Sherlock striding in, already removing his scarf – purple today. The waitress was already bringing over tea as if she had been expecting him. Was lunch at Speedy’s a routine for Sherlock? Watson struggled to not take note of all this new information. There was no need to learn this man anymore. _Not my client_ , he thought forcefully.

“Sherlock,” Watson responded, his voice squawking awkwardly. He immediately winced in embarrassment. 

Sherlock took the seat across him. His face seemed to want to be emotionless, but Watson could see the worry seeping through the mask. “Alright?” Sherlock asked gently. 

“Yes, yes of course. You?”

“Yes,” Sherlock responded with a short and dismissive tone. He seemed to be slightly embarrassed. 

Watson cursed himself for being so awkward. “First…” he began, “thank you for saving me. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.” 

Sherlock gave him half a nod, still unsure how to accept a compliment. His face seemed stiff, closed. Sherlock might be more comfortable in his own environment, but it also put him in a position of vulnerability to bring Watson here. Showing an interest in something or somewhere to a stranger is to give away valuable and sacred information. Watson knew this wasn’t just some meaningless place to the detective, but the opposite. Maybe this was why Sherlock seemed so uncomfortable now.

Watson coughed to clear the air. Sherlocked looked down at the menu, looking disinterested but John knew better. They both seemed to want to say so much – but so much was holding them back. 

Watson prepared himself to speak but Sherlock beat him to it. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Relief flooded him at the delay of the topic. 

Sherlock still didn’t look at him. “Every time I see you, you smile. People usually start hating me by now, but your smile seems to be growing by the day. Why?” He carried a completely bored tone, but Watson could read every ounce of insecurity and curiousness in the words. 

Watson was caught completely off guard with this turn of events, this question. So much was packed into it, did Sherlock even know? If Watson was still his psychiatrist, so many topics could branch from this subject for a mass potential internal healing. All the rising excitement crashed quickly when Watson realized once again that he was to be transferring Sherlock to a new doctor. After this wave of emotion came another: Sherlock wanted to know why Watson was happy to see him. 

His hands felt sweaty. Wiping them on his jeans, Watson responded professionally – taking the opportunity regardless of his plans. “Why do you think I would hate you? Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock turned to the window. This was not the answer he had been looking for. “Something about me, I guess.”

“Sherlock, you don’t deserve hatred. Maybe they just read you wrong. You’re a good person.”

“You don’t know me, Doctor.” Anger was seeping into Sherlock’s voice fast. Watson had to drop this topic. 

“I would like to.” He found himself mumbling, completely on accident. Sherlock looked at him in surprise. “Sorry, I meant…”

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said quickly. All the anger had vanished. 

“Mr. Holmes, I know this is supposed to be our fourth session, but I wanted to inform you that due to some personal circumstances I can no longer be your psychiatrist. If you want, I highly recommend you let me transfer you to the best doctor in our facility.” Watson couldn’t bring himself to look at Sherlock as he said this. As he finished, though, he glanced up. 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, leaning back into his chair. The waitress brought over a large plate of chips and placed it in the center of the table. This was probably a regular order for the detective. “So, you do dislike me. You’re quite good at hiding it, Mr. Watson.” He continued when she left. His eyes seemed empty as he grabbed a steaming, fresh chip to eat. Watson winced at the name, oddly. Everyone else called him this, so why was Sherlock doing it an issue?

The background noise of the café created a comfortable space in order to talk. It was loud enough to be easily heard, but not quite enough to be overheard. Watson struggled with his response. “Actually, it’s the opposite. I’m beginning to care too much for your case and it is _extremely_ unprofessional. I’m doing this for your best interests.”

Sherlock looked extremely confused; his face twisted. He composed himself quickly. “Again, Doctor, why do you think this is in my best interest? I don’t want anyone else.” He ate another fry.

“Can I ask why?” Watson pressed, perplexed.

“Everyone else is an idiot. You’re different.” Sherlock states matter-of-factly.

“Perhaps if you just gave them a chance-“ Watson attempted despite his secret happiness that he was special to someone.

“No.”

“I-“ A loud ring came from Watson’s phone, he had accidentally left it on the table. He couldn’t help but automatically glance at the words that popped up on-screen: _‘Since you can’t be professional enough to be friends, Ben and I have discussed that it’s best you move out of the apartment. It is in my name, after all. You have a week. -Mary’_

Watson’s head fell to the table. Too much was happening at once.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asked, quite concerned. 

“Fine.” He grunted. “Just getting kicked out of my home is all,” Watson said sarcastically, realizing his mistake immediately. “I’m so sorry, I-“

“It’s fine. You’re not my doctor anymore, remember? How about we just be friends, then?”

Watson hadn’t considered this as an option. “Uh…”

“I’ve actually been looking for a flatmate. If you need a place to stay, I mean.” How was Sherlock’s tone so calm and optimistic?

“Okay.” Watson breathed, still in shock. 

Sherlock’s face tilted to the side and the half-smile returned. “See you Thursday then?”

“See you then,” Watson replied. He watched Sherlock grab his things and leave. The detective had left him half of the chips. 

_What had just happened?_


	6. Silent Sounds

The wooden door that was 221B creaked slightly as John pushed it open. A worn yet elegant red runner greeted him as he stepped inside. Watson took in the new surroundings with a nervous eye. The space was dark but pleasantly homely. There was a rustic, golden coat rack to his left and a seemingly ancient, wooden staircase directly in front of him that most likely led to the bedrooms. To the right of the doctor, though, was a large living area. Two large leather chairs made the centrepiece of the room, facing the oversized window. No wonder Sherlock had been so comfortable in Watson's office; it was strikingly similar to his own home, his safe space. Something pinged in Watson's heart before he felt his lips pull up in a small smile. _A wonderful coincidence._

Sherlock's flat seemed to resemble his attire somewhat in that elegant and contemporary styles were effortlessly brought together. It was as if the two designs had been created to blend. Watson found himself thinking of Sherlock's flat as… well, _beautiful_. 

Ancient relics from around the world and even a skull with a knife embedded in it sat upon the fireplace. While this was a bit surprising, it didn't deter Watson in the slightest. Sherlock was a detective, after all. 

Watson noticed that many books and papers were flung about in a sense of methodical chaos around the room. He had expected this sort of organization from Sherlock's previous OCD behaviour. It may not appear orderly to a random bloke on the street but to Sherlock, this mess was surely systematic. _How bizarre_ , Watson thought. The home of his client was now his own. 

"There you are," Watson heard Sherlock say from the top of the stairs. "Do you have any more things to be brought in?"

Watson looked down at his rugged suitcase which carried all of his belongings. "No, no this is all." He replied sheepishly as he felt his face grow warm.

"No matter." Sherlock didn't miss a beat. There was no judgement on his face, no pity. Watson felt himself deflate on the inside. 

Sherlock made his way down the stairs to close the door behind the doctor. Sherlock began rambling about the flat as he locked it for security. "It's not much, but I have found it to be quite comfortable after a time. You've seen the main area, I assume?" He gestured his hand like a tour guide showcasing a new art display. It definitely wasn't much, the flat, but maybe that's why it seemed so perfect. Estimating from the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes as he introduced Watson to 221B; the sentimental value alone was already priceless. 

Sherlock gestured him forward to keep exploring. Beyond the living area was the kitchen, or rather… the lab. The kitchen very obviously never seemed to be used as such. Where food should be were stored body bits and earthly remains such as various types of dirt and tobacco. Where utensils would have been in an average person's kitchen held surgical knives and weaponry pieces instead. The table that might have been used for eating was covered in more papers, microscopes of various sizes, and a container of mysterious pink gunk that resembled silly putty. Sherlock muttered something about 'damn viscosity' before moving on. Watson tried not to laugh.

John had noticed Sherlock's tension but he wasn't sure of why it was there. It was obvious in the tightening of his lean shoulders, the deepening of the lines between his brows. Each room they explored seemed to only make it stronger. Watson tried to offer consolement in case it was self-consciousness. Letting someone into your life and the home was anything but easy - especially when you're used to being alone. Watson let himself smile through his nerves, and make little jokes at the new sites. This seemed to work the slightest bit, but something else was troubling the detective. Watson was at a loss. 

They eventually made it upstairs. Sherlock tried to carry Watson's luggage but the doctor wouldn't have it. Sherlock didn't push and continued on. It was nice to be able to say no without a fight. The oddness of the entire situation was quickly giving way to relief instead. 

A small den with some desks and faux leather couches presented itself at the top of the staircase. From here was access to two bedrooms with individual washrooms for each. Sherlock led Watson to the room nearest the window, straight across from the stair entrance. This made Sherlock's room the one on the left, closer to the stairs. Watson checked off each room of the flat, drawing up an imaginary map in his mind. 

Sherlock opened the door to Watson's room, slowly. Thankfully it didn't make a noise, so John wouldn't have to worry about waking his flatmate if a midnight snack ever called out to him. They entered the small room, a comfortable-looking bed made up in the center. A wooden chest of drawers and a personal desk made up the corners of the room. Everything in this nearly empty space was polished and clean. Watson nodded in surprise, it was lovely. 

"Of course, if you ever need anything, I'm nearby," Sherlock stated nonchalantly. 

"Thank you, Sherlock, " Watson said, making a point to look directly into those bright blue eyes, "for everything."

Sherlock nodded and looked away. Watson's throat felt thick and tight, full of emotion he refused to let seep out.

Sherlock coughed to clear the air. "I'll leave you to unpack. Mrs. Hudson is most likely baking something for tonight, she's excited to meet you. For the love of God, even if she asks, do _not_ comment on the raisins. You'll be sick of them after a week."

"Okay?" Watson giggled, confused.

Sherlock nodded once more, his eyes lingering on something in the room before taking his leave. Watson looked around, wondering what had caught the detective's attention. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He dismissed the curiosity and began unpacking his things.

Meeting Mrs. Hudson did _not_ go as expected. 

Watson made his way downstairs after a short time only to discover his flatmate arguing with an older woman in a yellow dress. 

"Honestly," Sherlock stated in a dismissive tone. The eye-rolling could be heard weaving its way through the sounds of his voice. Watson's view of the living area was slim, but he could still see

the detective's stance was a stubborn one, arms folded loosely around his chest. Sherlock was leaning slightly backwards while standing as if being physically repulsed by the conversation.

A shrill voice argued back, "I know how much-"

Watson didn't want to overhear anything personal so he quickly made his presence known by loudly making his way down the rest of the stairs. Sherlock cleared his throat and the woman quickly stopped talking. The tension in the air was heavy, but neither let it show. Sherlock made his face blank as usual, and the woman greeted him with a very large, warm smile.

"Hello, Dr. Watson! I've heard so much about you!" She held out her hand.

Watson took her frail, tiny hand in greeting. "Please, call me John."

"Oh, you're lovely. Maybe you can teach Sherlock how to use some of those manners." 

"Well, uh…" Watson didn't know what to say. Sherlock had always seemed to be a gentleman to him. He didn't have to search long for a response, though, because Mrs. Hudson happily continued on. "Are you hungry? I've prepared lunch if you like. Oh, and you should have some tea. Moving is hard - a big life change. When I was in my twenties…" The woman continued rambling as she went to fetch the food. 

Sherlock leaned over and whispered "Sorry about that. She's quite talkative for a landlady, but she makes a good housekeeper." 

"Not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson yelled from the hall. Watson and Sherlock laughed together quietly. 

Mrs. Hudson quickly returned with a large silver tray that included a golden tea set, a basket of hot cross buns and scones, and a plate of sandwiches in a very neat row. Watson raised his brows, impressed. Mrs. Hudson was a very organized and punctual individual. Also, a clumsy one. 

The tray began shaking wildly as she neared the table. Watson leaped to the rescue, stabling the tray by grabbing the sides. "Oh, thank you." Mrs. Hudson exclaimed with a large sigh. She let go of the tray and let Watson place it on the table. 

"Thank you, this looks absolutely amazing. " Watson replied. He had never been doted on before so accepting all the kindness was a bit difficult. Watson was usually the one doing things to please and serve others, it was a part of his personality - or so he assumed. Seeing someone else be so accommodating for him made Watson feel… guilty. He should be the one doing the serving, he didn't deserve- Watson stopped himself. He immediately recognized his train of thought as negative and stored it away for analysis later. Maybe Watson had more problems than he thought. 

Sherlock immediately began preparing himself a cup of tea and Mrs. Hudson began pointing out the foods and holding out a sandwich for Watson. "I didn't know whether to make scones or buns so I did both… oh, I should have put raisins in them. Do you like them better with raisins?"

The woman looked absolutely distraught. Recalling Sherlock's words and seeing his overly-wide fearful eyes now, Watson immediately said "Actually, I think they're perfectly made without them. Never been a fan of raisins, actually." Sherlock's relief was visible and he closed his eyes for a small sigh. Watson held in laughter. Mrs. Hudson was just delighted and continued the conversation, asking questions about his previous home life and such. 

Somehow with the disappearance of all the sandwiches appeared the topic of past marriages. Watson discovered Mrs. Hudson had quite an adventure with the 'bad boys' of her time. Mrs. Hudson learned about Mary. Why did they not work? More like, why did Watson ever believe they would. Why would he let himself be led into such a hell? "We just, erm… weren't meant to be I suppose."

Sherlock was looking at him in a strange way. His eyes were brighter than normal, full of curiosity. It suddenly occurred to Watson that their sessions had always been focused on Sherlock. This was Sherlock's first time being able to peek into Watson's story. And he looked sad.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry. But you know, the one for you is still out there."

Watson laughed. "You mean like a soulmate? No." 

"Exactly that! I swear it. I've seen it happen time and time again, myself."

Watson shook his head with a smile, kindly disagreeing. True love didn't exist to him. People could love each other, yes, and agree to be together and make it work. But the stuff of fairytales? Not possible. 

Mrs. Hudson took a sip of tea and squinted her eyes. "You'll see." She murmured. 

Watson decided to change the subject. "So are you two related somehow?" He asked. Two pairs of eyes looked at him in surprise. 

"Heavens, no." Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "What gave you that idea?"

Watson felt his face grow warm. "You two just seem so.. close somehow. Like a family."

Sherlock froze. He looked at the landlady in confusion. Mrs. Hudson piped up, "Well of course we are. All the cooking and cleaning up I do after this man? Might as well be his mother!" She laughed. 

Sherlock remained oddly quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Before long the three parted ways to turn in for the night. Sherlock and Watson walked the stairs together in silence. 

Hand on the doorknob to his room, Sherlock spoke in a strained voice, "She is the mother I never had, I suppose." 

"I'm really glad," Watson replied. Sherlock was sharing. Maybe he should too. No matter how embarrassing it was. They were no longer client and patient, but flatmates. Friends. "Mary was… very abusive. I was really weak, really stupid." He struggles with the words.

Sherlock released the knob and let his arm fall back to his side. He probably hadn't expected that. "On the contrary.." he began calmly, quietly, "you were anything but. From what I know of you, you were strong enough to recognize and leave a difficult situation. Instead of succumbing, you fought. When you were hurt, you turned to help others. You are not weak, John." Sherlock left him without waiting for a response. 

Watson was breathless. He looked out the window at the setting sun before going into his new room. The colours blended and swirled in a peaceful and stunning way. Pinks and purples and blues… changes are hard. But this new beginning seemed to be the best fresh start Watson had ever had and for the first time in a long time, he was excited for tomorrow.


	7. Observations

Light sifted through the curtains with a mission to land upon Watson’s eyelids. He struggled to lift them against the weight of sleep. The doctor had slept well… too well. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so comfortably. There hadn’t been even a single disturbance of his sleep during the night. 

Watson made himself sit up and face the day. He was in Sherlock’s flat. Now his flat, too. It was dizzying to wake up in a new place, and even more so because it was a client’s home. _Ex-client_ , Watson reminded himself. 

A buzzing sound led Watson to pick up his phone - which in hindsight might have been a mistake. Forty-two messages awaited him along with five missed calls. Harriet, his sister, and Molly had found out about the hospital visit. Harriet masked her concern with anger and ranted at him for not calling the moment John had awoken. Molly was guilty and grateful and a mix of ten other emotions all at once. There were many messages of thanks and hope-you’re-okay’s and promises of cookies. It took some time to respond to the two and afterwards Watson quickly silenced his phone. He couldn’t do this all day. 

Watson began his morning routine in the new place, struggling to find even his toothbrush that he had left in the suitcase. A knock downstairs rushed him. Nobody knew Watson was here except Sherlock but the possibility of the impossibility had him panicked. What would they think of him? The doctor had lost his wife, his home, and had moved in with his client. _Not a client,_ his internal voice piped in. Watson couldn’t help but wonder if he was just a failure. 

“ _You are not weak, John.”_ Sherlock’s words from the night before halted John in the middle of his rushed dressing. His mind silenced its storm of thoughts to focus on one sentence. One sentence that now meant the world to him, true or not. Watson slowed and took his time to get ready, even doing some of his morning stretches. Maybe he could turn things around and prove Sherlock right. 

Upon entering the living area downstairs, Watson was surprised to see nobody there. After a few moments, he realized it had been Mrs. Hudson at the door. He knew this because a silver platter of cinnamon buns was placed on the table. John shook his head with a smile. She was too kind. 

“Coffee?” A voice asked behind him. Watson jumped in fright. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock said from the dark kitchen. “You had looked around, I thought you knew I was here.”

“It’s alright, I guess I missed you.” Not only was Watson’s heart racing now, but his face was quickly heating up in what he assumed was a state of embarrassment. 

“Coffee?” Sherlock asked again, his face was without expression, as normal. 

“Sure.” Sherlock handed him a cup. Watson noticed that the detective had cleared the table a bit. He had a cup of tea beside what looked like a paint chip on a slide. After taking a sip, Sherlock inserted it into a microscope and began studying it. Wait - tea? So Sherlock preferred tea to coffee. Watson made a mental note. But then why had there already been a pot of coffee made? 

Trying not to overthink again, Watson looked about in the heavy silence. He quietly sipped his coffee so as not to disturb the detective. A newspaper was strewn about on the table. Ignoring the mysterious substance underneath it, John began to read - wincing at every crinkle of the page. Frontpage news was about the capture of the “Ghost Man”. Watson wasn’t specifically mentioned by name, but the building address and mention of ‘two surviving victims’ had been enough to set his sister off. Everything made sense now.

“You should really be more observant,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

Watson tried not to be offended. “Perhaps.”

Silence again. 

The doctor mustered up the courage to speak again. “What are you working on?”

“It’s a piece of the gas canister. Trying to locate the base.”

Watson tried not to shudder at the memory of gasping for air. “From a paint chip?”

Sherlock looked up from the microscope in subtle annoyance. “Yes.”

John quickly looked back at the newspaper, minding his own business. He pretended not to see Sherlock’s gaze come upon him. “Would you like to learn how?” The detective asked after a minute or two.

He practically threw the newspaper. “Yes.” 

Sherlock’s face twitched at the corner of his mouth. Was he trying not to smile? Was Watson being a fool? Or did the detective enjoy the attention?

Sherlock motioned his head in a ‘come over here’ fashion. Watson finished his coffee as if he wasn’t in a hurry, then went to stand behind his new flatmate. He had never been this close to Sherlock and an odd, tingly feeling was rapidly filling his stomach because of it. The detective’s dark curls of hair bounced as he moved over slightly. The smell of fresh rain and tobacco arose and mixed with that of cinnamon and tea. An odd combination, no doubt, but a perfect one nonetheless. Watson wanted to make a candle of it.

“Take a look,” he said. 

Watson leaned in and peered through the lens of the scope, trying his best to ignore Sherlock’s robe that was now rubbing gently against his side. Focusing, John saw a spectacular blend of layers, dots, and what appeared to be a very organized, woven structure. “All of this from a chip?” He exclaimed in wonder.

“Precisely.” Sherlock nodded once, no emotion upon his face.

“You’re a chemist - a scientist.” Watson proclaimed incredulously.”

“I’m a lot of things.” He said quietly, almost sadly. 

“What do _you_ see?” Watson looked away from the chip and towards the detective. Absolute curiosity had overtaken his nerves.

Sherlock sat up straighter and proudly looked in the microscope. “The base is undoubtedly that of a manufactured metal, steel to be exact. Above that are several layers of paint, and underneath is particle remnants of his gas of choice, which is obvious if you have a basic concept of chemistry. What I’m looking for is above the paint. Particles of dust, chemicals, anything that can lead me to where he conducted his work.” 

“Have you found anything?” Watson asked in amazement.

“A lot, actually.” Sherlock pulled away from the microscope and stood. In his rush, the detective had come face to face with Watson, who immediately pulled back to give him room to walk. John’s face reddened once again and he struggled to breathe. Sherlock kept on, completely unbothered, to a small machine in the corner of the room, which had been silently spinning some samples. “I’m off to the department. Want to come along?”

Watson wanted to say yes, so badly, but he was overwhelmed already with strong feelings of confusion, shame, and maybe even infatuation. “Actually, I have an appointment with my sister, but thank you.” A lie, even though he really owed her a call. Watson just needed to run out his excessive emotions. 

Sherlock paid no attention to whether it was a lie or not - even though Watson nervously wondered if he could tell, observant as he was. Instead, he facepalmed as he walked out the front door of 221B. “Sister,” he mumbled. “Sister!” Sherlock seemed to be beating himself up over some miscalculation. 

Confused, Watson waited some time before taking his own leave. Making sure the dishes were washed and the table was cleared beforehand to lessen the burden on Mrs. Hudson. He took a bun with him as he sneaked to his favourite trail to do his morning run and sort out his feelings. They had to be sorted out today because Watson could not continue on like this. It was too much. Sherlock had been so courteous as to give him a place to stay, and he would not dare let himself make things awkward by letting these feelings grow. _It ends today._


	8. An Average Day

A week had passed without success.

In fact, John Watson’s feelings seemed to be getting stronger. 

It didn’t help that Sherlock seemed to enjoy getting reactions from his new flatmate; particularly those of amazement, shock, and curiosity. Watson was in a state of constant and overwhelming emotion for most of the day, however, at night he relaxed and fell asleep to the gentle sound of Sherlock’s violin - which he often practiced at odd times. Due to the randomness of the pitches and intensity, Watson held a steadfast hypothesis that Sherlock’s violin was an outlet for the emotions he refused to show on his own person. John couldn’t help but analyze Sherlock’s actions and mannerisms, you see, as he still maintained the position of Watson’s most fascinating and mysterious case. No longer only for work, but solely in complete and utter admiration.

They held a routine, somewhat, which was of much comfort to the doctor. They would wake up with the sun, Sherlock first, and have their preferred beverages prepared by the detective himself as John read the news. Sherlock usually spent his mornings working on some experiment or in deep meditation. 

This morning, however, John woke up to an empty flat. It wasn’t the first time he had woken up alone, but ever since he had moved into 221B Watson had gotten quite used to mornings with Sherlock. The doctor began the morning routine on his own; brewing some coffee and fetching the newspaper from the steps outside. The world seemed normal, save for the missing detective. People were walking their pets outside and eating and shopping and whatnot. The world was alive. So why was it so eerily different inside? 

John began berating himself for being so bothered by Sherlock’s absence. He was probably just out, or working, or... anything other than being here. It shouldn’t be such an issue. They were both grown men with their own lives despite sharing a home. 

Watson began reading the newspaper, coffee in hand. The world was completely normal. No big news. A woman had found her missing dog, a robbery had taken place in a jewelry shop, and fuel prices were rising. An average day in London.

A gentle but quick knock came at the door. Watson got up from his newly claimed chair, as Sherlock and he had renovated and centred the two large, leather chairs near the fireplace in the living area and moved the sofas upstairs. It was now one large living area better suited to the two of them. Watson was also taking small steps to clean up the kitchen area to make it, well, a kitchen area. Sherlock so far hadn’t seemed to notice the little changes. Or if he did, hadn’t spoken a word of it. 

Watson grasped the cold, metal doorknob and pulled it open to reveal a frail, old lady in a dark dress. 

“Can I help you?” He asked kindly. 

“Yes.” She spoke weakly. “I seem to have gotten lost. May I come in and borrow your telly?”

Worried the woman was mentally or even physically weakened, Watson opened the door wide without delay. “Of course, of course! Can I get you some tea?” 

The woman was hunched over in a painful sort of position as she was slowly led to Watson’s chair. Watson thought to himself that she had to be in her eighties, if not older. Wrinkles and grey hair prevailed on her small figure. “Thank you.” She whispered. “Tea sounds lovely.”

Watson left his cell with the woman and went to fetch some tea. By the time he made it back to the living area, though, the woman had vanished. He looked to the sky after a few seconds of silent and wide-eyed shock and asked the universe what game it was playing. Today was just too bizarre. 

“Oh, tea, don’t mind if I do,” Sherlock said from his right, coming from ‘round the stairwell. He took the cup from Watson’s hand and took a large sip, walking to his chair as if everything was fine. Watson, however, stood in shock and blinked hard in confusion. A while of this caused Sherlock to break and he laughed for quite a while, which woke Watson from his stupor.  _ What a beautiful sound _ , Watson thought to himself, and he couldn’t help but smile. 

The doctor took a seat across Sherlock, as their chairs were angled just so - similar to that of their old sessions in Watson’s office. “What just happened?” He asked the detective. “Where were you?”

“I’ve been here all along,” Sherlock explained. “I told you, you really must work on your observation. Couldn’t you tell that the old woman wasn’t that at all, but a young man?” His lips lifted on one side in that small but proud smile of his. 

“But.. how?” Watson was at a loss. This morning had been too much for him. 

“Oh, John. There’s nothing a little makeup and skill can’t handle. It’s called the art of disguise. And you just helped me solve a case.”

“Case? Which case?”

“The jewelry store robbery. Happened in broad daylight. A simple trick, actually.” Sherlock drank more tea and leaned back proudly.

“Care to explain?” Watson asked, trying not to be frustrated in this game of catch-up.

“It’s all in the tapes, but the department saw nothing unusual and nearly dropped the case. The morons. I, however, saw several men go into the store. But one few men, and an old lady, come out. It was a clever heist.” 

“Alright.” Watson nodded to himself, understanding. “Alright. Wait - and you used me to prove it?”

“I proved it the moment I saw the tapes. I just thought it would be fun to experience how easy it was to pull it off.”

“That bored, are you?” John laughed. 

“You’ve no idea.” Sherlock sighed. 

Watson’s phone rang just as he was about to sarcastically suggest they play Clue, the ‘old woman’ had gratefully left it on his side table. Sherlock was pretending to not be interested but John saw the slightest of an eyebrow raise and knew he was curious. 

He answered without looking at the number, which was a mistake. A deep voice came from the phone, “Humber and Lily, 8 pm. Say anything to anyone, they die. Don’t meet me, you die.”

“Who is this?” Watson replied, but they quickly hung up the phone. 

Sherlock sat up quickly at what was probably a very fearful expression on the doctor’s face. “What’s going on?”

_ Say anything, they die. “ _ Nobody”, Watson chuckled for good measure, “just one of those annoying telemarketers, you know.”

Sherlock looked skeptical. “John.” He said simply. His expression was blank but his tone carried worlds of meaning.  _ You can talk to me, _ it said _ , tell me what just happened.  _

“I have loads of paperwork to catch up on for work, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Watson said before rushing to his room, leaving Sherlock in silence. 

Two questions weighed down Watson’s mind as heavy as boulders. 

Who had just called him? And what could they possibly want from a psychiatrist?


	9. A Gambler's Poison

Being an awful habit born of stress, gambling seemed the only option available to John Watson. He tried to limit his irrational behaviour once he had moved in with Sherlock, knowing how irresponsible it was for a psychiatrist to have such addictions. Watson knew the problem for what it was but putting an end to the gambling seemed impossible – even for him.

Despite saying he would be returning to his room, Watson quickly snuck out of the flat and hailed a cab to the nearest and largest casino. He set these perimeters so as not to be easily recognized in the bustle of game and socialization. The words of the caller rung through his head like an old and annoying telephone, _“Say anything to anyone, they die. Don’t meet me, you die”._ It had to be a trick, right? Some sort of prank? Should he inform the police? That is certainly what he would recommend his patients do in this situation. But what would Watson do?

The cabbie released him before the grand and lit doors of the grand casino. Watson felt utterly alone. Despite his sister, John had lost all his family and friends – save for Sherlock. Watson froze mid-step. Sherlock, a friend? No. Flatmate. But why not a friend, too? Watson shook his head violently, desperate to find some tranquillity in his viciously racing thoughts.

Stopping at an ATM, Watson pulled out enough money to cover a few month’s wages – all the while muttering curses at himself for the stupidity of it all. He ventured from machine to machine, avoiding tables for the sake of stewing in the loneliness. When drinks came ‘round, he never refused. Watson hated drinking, avoided it at all costs. Tonight though, he seemed to be fully open to punishing himself for some invisible crime.

As 7 pm neared, Watson staggered drunkenly toward the exit. The loss of money and inhibition had convinced him to take on the threat alone, so as not to put anyone else in danger. He needed time to walk to Humber and Lily, about 20 minutes away, so leaving early seemed the safest option.

The brisk night air was refreshing for the slightest of moments. The doctor took a deep breath and began walking, or at least trying to. Watson had drunk too much, way too much, and kept leaning off the sidewalk. After almost hitting a tree, a dark figure took the elbow of his arm – stabilizing him. Watson gasped in surprise and tried looking up to determine if the stranger was a threat. Perhaps the caller, even?

A long dark coat, looming hat, and cold hands were not enough to identify the figure, but the voice certainly was. “What has bloody gotten into you, John?” Sherlock growled at him.

Watson attempted to shrink away in shame, but Sherlock held on tight to his arm. They walked for a few moments in silence until they came across a dark, empty alley. Sherlock placed Watson sternly, but gently, against the brick wall and quickly looked around to confirm they were alone. “You haven’t been the same since that call. Tell me what’s going on.”

Watson was embarrassed, ashamed, and mortified. He couldn’t talk. The words would put his flatmate in danger. “I can’t”, he slurred.

“Why not?” Sherlock searched his eyes frustratingly, desperately, and so Watson tried to look away – terrified of what the detective would discover. Using his ice-cold hands, Sherlock held his face still. Their faces were impossibly close and a lack of inhibitions was starting to make Watson dream of very forbidden things. He held his breath, daring himself not to move. After a few more seconds of this, Sherlock decided to go directly to the source and began searching Watson’s pockets. He was too drunk to even bother resisting. Sherlock pulled out Watson’s cellphone and began scrolling through it. While the detective was at work most likely searching through the call history, Watson decided to ask questions.

“How did you find me?”

“ I never left you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not hard to track and you don’t lie well. I heard you leave the flat and followed in my own cab, which arrived first but elsewhere. I’ve been walking next to you this entire time, from casino to street. Then I followed you out, obviously leaving to meet someone you don’t know who called you from a burner phone and caused you great distress, someone who won’t let you talk. Tell me what they want, John. Is it gambling debt? We can get you out of this, but I need you to talk to me.”

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had figured out nearly everything. “He’ll kill you”, Watson whispered with his last bit of defiance. 

Sherlock saw this. “You stupidly try to be Superman without realizing your own mortality. Don’t be a hero, John.” 

Watson began slipping off the wall as the world spun around him. Sherlock rushed to hold him against it, placing his knee firmly against Watson’s hip and leaving a hand on his shoulder. _Was he really that short?_

Sherlock pocketed the phone with his free hand and almost cheerily said “I’ll be taking this, thanks.” He looked at Watson again with dark eyes that seemed to be only grey now. Watson struggled to keep his head upright. 

“What exactly was your plan?” Sherlock shook his head. “Meeting a possibly armed stranger in this state? You couldn’t even throw a proper punch if it came to it.”

Watson stayed silent. He hadn’t really planned that far ahead and the thought of dying hadn’t been as scary as it was now. Watson only wished he could _think,_ but everything was so foggy and thick. 

“When and where?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sher-” John started desperately.

“ _When and where_?” He repeated, sounding angrier than he ever had before.

Shaken, Watson told him. 

“What do they want?”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t. They just said to come.” 

Sherlock studied him a moment to confirm this was true and nodded once to himself in affirmation. “Right then, let’s go.”


	10. The Other One

John Watson struggled to maintain an air of sobriety as Sherlock led him to the corner of Humber and Lily Street. It was desolate, dark, and damp. It was the perfect place for meeting a stranger, he thought sarcastically. Sherlock was holding Watson inconspicuously, in a way that lent him the strength to walk straight. He thought of a wolf pack, only being as strong as its weakest member. Whoever they were meeting could not know Watson was intoxicated. A surge of guilt pulsed through him.  _ Why had he been so stupid? _ Now they were both in danger, and Watson could not help if it came to a fight. They stumbled on. 

Sherlock and Watson had made it just in time. A lamp loomed over the corner street sign, yet nobody stood under it. Abandoned buildings surrounded the clearing and garbage rolled over the pavement in the night wind. 

“You alright?” Sherlock murmured. 

“Yes. You?” Watson replied. He wished the heaviness on his mind would slip away faster so that he could be of more use. 

“Fine.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at him but towards the light. No- across it. “Can you stand on your own?”

Watson seriously doubted this but nodded anyway. Sherlock’s hands released their grip from Watson. He swayed a bit on his own before settling into a determined stillness. Sherlock took a purposeful step towards the light. 

“Where are you going?” Watson hissed. “There’s nobody there.”

“On the contrary, he’s been here quite a while.” Sherlock’s eyes never moved away from the point across the clearing. Watson searched the trees, the buildings, the street - seeing nobody. “Stay here, no matter what,” he demanded.

Sherlock kept his pace, step after step, almost as if approaching a bear that could rage at any moment. Sherlock’s back was to Watson and yet he could tell his flatmate was studying something intently. His shoulders were pulled slightly forward while his head stayed stiffly lowered. It was as if the world had become a microscope that the detective was engrossed in peering through. The doctor had grown accustomed to this stance from all the challenges Sherlock seemed to enjoy giving him before showing off his own deductive skills. What had he said last time?  _ Observe _ . 

Gently, steadily, Sherlock pressed on - and then stopped. Right at the edge of the circle of light, he stopped. The silence was heavy until what Watson had previously thought was Sherlock’s shadow stepped into the circle. A tall, thin man with dark hair and puffy eyes. Sherlock gave no indication whatsoever of surprise or shock. In fact, he looked annoyed. 

“You again.” Sherlock tried sounding bored, but Watson noticed his investigative stance hadn’t faltered. Did this stranger notice that as well? “What business do you have here, Moriarty?”

The man Sherlock called Moriarty slowly pulled out a gun, unphased. “None with you. I had a meeting with the doctor, there,” he said in a loud voice that seemed to demand attention.

They began slowly circling each other around the clearing. Watson desperately tried to catch Sherlock’s eyes, to no avail. This is exactly what he had been afraid of. 

Incredusouly, Sherlock began to smirk. “State your business then. We’re all here.” 

Moriarty could not handle this pompous attitude and growled as he lifted the gun towards Sherlock’s head. Watson couldn’t breathe. Without thinking, he practically ran towards them - disobeying Sherlock’s direct order to stay. Reaching Sherlock’s side, Watson noticed just how tight his jaw was with disapproval. Watson didn’t care. This was his mess and his mess alone, not Sherlock’s. “What do you want?” He begged.

Moriarty took a deep breath to compose himself. Then, focused the gun at John’s heart. 

“There’s no point now in continuing my previous plans. I was hoping, as his psychiatrist, you might be able to give me information. I hadn’t expected you two to actually be close. Where have you come from then, a pub?” He looked absolutely disgusted. Watson didn’t blame him.

“I’m not his psychiatrist. Not anymore. And besides that, why did you think I would tell you anything? I wouldn’t have!” Watson tripped over his words only to see Sherlock had gone white.

“You wouldn’t have had a choice.” Moriarty flipped the safety off the gun with a  _ click _ . 

“He knows nothing of your brother,” Sherlock finally said. Moriarty didn’t move. “Colonel, this man is an innocent. Release him. Your problem lies with me.” 

“And yet you only care about my problem when it is this  _ innocent  _ who is in danger. Now, why is that?” Colonel Moriarty sneered.

Colonel? Brother? Watson was at a loss and his chest hurt from his heart beating so hard. He had never been so confused and yet so desperate to know the answer at the same time. 

Sherlock began speaking, catching Watson up to the situation. “This man’s younger brother was a mathematician. His name was Professor James Moriarty, or Jim as he liked to be called. He went missing-”

“You killed him!” The colonel roared. 

Sherlock raised his hands in a surrendering position. “I promise you, I had nothing to do with your brother’s disappearance.” 

“You’re lying!” Colonel Moriarty screamed. He was absolutely distraught, unable to get control of his emotions. Fingers moved to the trigger. They began to squeeze. Watson shut his eyes tight, ready for what was to come. 

“I’ll find him!” Sherlock yelled. “I’ll help you! But only if you lower the gun.”

Tears were streaming from Moriarty’s eyes. “He’s dead. I’ve seen photos. I got his last letter, he said- he… my brother is dead. Because of you.”

Sherlock? A murderer? That didn’t seem possible. 

“He isn’t dead,” Sherlock pleaded. “You are being deceived, James. Let me help you and I swear I will find him.” 

“How do you know?” Moriarty cried. The pressure of the weapon eased off his chest. Watson knew what was happening. Grief was one of the most powerful emotions. And definitely the most dangerous. It was devoid of rationality and thirsty for hope, and Sherlock was giving that to him. Watson just hoped he wasn’t lying. His life would be saved, yes, but to have hope again in the recovery of grief? To be told your stage of denial was no longer necessary? It would be like being pushed off a tower again and again. It would be incredibly cruel. In an odd twist of thoughts, the doctor in Watson wanted to admit this man into his care, to help him through whatever had happened to his brother. 

“We shared contacts. After your… insistent emails, I looked into the matter. They’ve sent surveillance photos, just from last week. Didn’t you say he died months ago? I’m going to pull out my phone and show you.” And he did so, being careful and slow with his movements so as not to startle the colonel. 

A sob escaped him as Moriarty saw the photos, which Sherlock was scrolling through. Even Watson could see the clear, mechanical timestamps that they were in fact, recent. The man in the photo was also tall and thin, but held a rounder, younger face. Watson had a million questions. The gun turned back to Sherlock. “How do I know you’ll follow your word?”

“Because I always do,” Sherlock said sincerely. Colonel Moriarty scoffed in disbelief. “Because I don’t want you to return. I find your brother, you never contact Doctor Watson again, understood?”

Moriarty nodded. “And if you don’t, he dies. Then you can know what it’s like to experience loss and  _ I will laugh at your pain _ .” He holstered the gun and stood stiffly in front of them, took one last, almost desperate look at Sherlock, and began marching away.

Watson took a deep, relieved breath. “Are you alright?” 

Sherlock wouldn’t look at him. “Fine.”

They started back to 221B while Watson internally questioned how much he really knew about the man at his side.


	11. London Fog

The night passed without a word. Sherlock, still not making eye contact, had helped Watson to his bed before taking his leave. No music played that evening. The guilt only worsened the clearer his mind became. 

By morning, the world had still not returned to normal. Mrs. Hudson, most likely sensing the tension inside of 221B, left some toast and bolted - breaking her usual habit of chatting insistently. The silence was about to drive Watson mad. And so was his headache.

Even the world seemed upset. A heavy fog, not unusual for London, had descended over the streets. Outside the window lay a bleak and gray atmosphere so obtrusive that Watson wondered for a moment if it was grieving something. Writing this off as projection, the doctor left the sight and attempted to have as normal a morning as possible. It wasn’t easy. Shaking hands made a mess of his coffee. Spurts of anxiety from last night’s events held his mind captive in distraction, making it impossible to think about going in to work. Knowing he couldn’t help anyone else without healing himself first, Watson decided to take the rest of the week off. 

The call to Molly inspired slight panic as she demanded to immediately bring baked goods and company. She still, unnecessarily, wanted to pay him some thanks for the attempted rescue. Fearing further awkwardness between him and Sherlock, he politely declined all offers. It was going to be a long day. 

Three cups of coffee and two newspapers later, Sherlock finally came downstairs. He was already dressed for the day and his jaw was set in some unknown emotion. Sherlock’s movements were stiff as he got his own morning beverage, still refusing to look at him. They took to their usual chairs in silence. The air seemed to be vibrating now, excited to see what would happen next. 

Watson coughed nervously. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I was incredibly careless and-” 

Eyebrows coming together in frustration, Sherlock quickly - finally - looked at him. His eyes were a bright bluish-gray today, oddly matching the London fog. Watson’s breathing was caught off guard and halted in defence. 

“John, my actions keep putting you in danger. You are not the one who should be sorry.” 

Sherlock blamed himself for this? Why? Watson’s hands rubbed his temples in frustration. They couldn’t each blame themselves to the point of eternal awkward silence. They needed a solution. In further shame, Watson realized he was showing his emotions and immediately stilled, composing himself as he would in the office. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Sherlock told him quietly. “You aren’t my psychiatrist, anymore. We can both be honest about what we think.”

Watson’s face heated. Everything was so odd. “I don’t blame you.” 

Sherlock took a sip of his steaming tea and sat back, relaxing for the first time all morning. “I suppose this can be our first case together.”

“What?”

“We have a missing person to find, don’t we? You’re obviously not going to work today, it’s already noon. So… join me.” Sherlock crossed his legs and tilted his head. He seemed to be too curious about how Watson would respond. But didn’t he already know the answer?

“I don’t know anything about this.”

“Jim Moriarty. A professor, a brother, in hiding.” Sherlock had been on the case all morning, Watson could tell. This was just bait. The detective was trying to tempt him into being curious. “A colonel who would break his vows to avenge his blood.”

Watson rolled his eyes. “It’s not that hard to believe. Have you ever lost anyone? Grief is an incredible emotion.”

Sherlock ignored this. “What do you say, Doctor Watson? Want to try your skills at sleuthing?” He gave him a grin that seemed almost playful. Watson wanted to keep it there.

He gave a defeated sigh, “How do you know these people, anyway?”

“The younger Moriarty, an old enemy of mine.” Sherlock began.

Watson was shocked. “A maths professor is your enemy?”

He nodded once. “A criminal. The composer of a band of criminals, actually.”

“I’m lost.”

Sherlock sighed in frustration. “The Moriarty family, three brothers and two well-off parents. The children had an easy upbringing and each became just as successful as their parents had been.”

“And the third child? What became of him?” Watson asked in amazement.

“The youngest, George, he owns a train station. Doesn’t matter.” Watson disagreed with this but stayed silent. “Normal family. Normal lives. Yet, one of them had been born a bit more clever than the others, born a psychopath: Jim Moriarty.” 

“Diagnosed such or is this just how you feel?”

Offended, Sherlock snuffed at him. “You’re welcome to come to your own conclusions when you meet him, Doctor.”

“ _ When _ ?” Sherlock got up to refill his cup. By the time he returned, Watson had a new question. “Why does James think you’ve killed his brother?”

“I’m being framed. Don’t know why. Yet.” The detective’s eyes were averted, deep in thought. This was the part that bugged him the most, Watson deduced. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind being put in danger, nor did he complain about his reputation being blemished, as long as he knew the  _ purpose  _ behind it all. Watson pushed down his natural curiosity to delve deeper into Sherlock’s past. 

Suddenly Sherlock stood up. “Let’s be off, then.” 

“Right now?” Watson asked incredulously. 

“Yes,” he replied, “and this time, do listen when I tell you to stay put.” Watson froze for a moment, looking up at his flatmate to determine if he was upset. Thankfully, his face was relaxed and that whimsical grin was still present. Despite this, there was a hidden speck of hurt in those deep eyes. 

Watson nodded and internally vowed to be more careful, not understanding Sherlock’s emotions. In fact, his flatmate’s moods were becoming stranger and stranger to Watson as time went on. He remembered the gun. The switch of targets. Sherlock going pale. His tone becoming fearful. Pleading with the soldier instead of holding on to that bold cockiness that he had begun the interaction with. This was supposed to mean something, Watson could feel it, but he felt incredibly blind. 

Sherlock interrupted his thoughts by tossing him a bottle of medication. “For your headache,” he said. Watson didn’t even bother asking how he knew. Perhaps he would forever be an open book to this man, there was no use fighting it. 


	12. Power of Choice

“ _This man not only works for the department but unbeknownst to him, he is a great friend of mine. Please do what you can to help him.”_

These were the words that Inspector Greg Lestrade had written to him when Sherlock had first been admitted to Watson’s care. They had seared themselves in his mind, never to be forgotten. Yet, not a single soul would have believed them to be true - considering the scene that was now playing out before him.

Sherlock; carrying a bit of a swagger as he strode into Scotland Yard like he owned the place. Entering an office that _absolutely did not_ brandish his name. Made use of the computer, easily bypassing any attempt of security as if it weren’t even there.

Lestrade; yelling at the top of his lungs from the far end of the building. Stomping towards the office that Sherlock had conveniently taken over - _his_ office. 

Screaming. Rolling of the eyes. Furious texts as they exchanged information.

The two could have been easily confused for siblings. 

Watson thought of Colonel James Moriarty, willing to kill an unoffending stranger to avenge his brother’s death. His fierce love. His tyrannical grief. Thinking more on it, Watson had never seen any indication that Sherlock had been unable to see to his duties. He still had not determined why Sherlock had been sent to him in the first place. Was it truly that Sherlock had become a danger to himself and the department? Or had Detective Inspector Lestrade just been worried? Protective, even? 

While Watson debated this, Sherlock had filled in the detective inspector on everything that had happened - gratefully leaving out where Watson had been before meeting James. The doctor watched Lestrade’s shoulders relax a bit. Already, he felt better being informed - despite how dangerous the situation had been. Greg Lestrade feared the unknown, not what was actually out there. 

“Right, just this once then,” he said in a severely annoyed tone. Watson could tell he hated losing fights. Hated giving in to Sherlock’s whims. “And I expect to be in the loop on this, I’m serious. You can’t just barge in here and do whatever you want, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. His message was clear: _watch me._

Watson nearly laughed but quickly coughed to hide it. He had never seen Sherlock seem so childish, so rebellious. 

Greg Lestrade hadn’t seen him until then. He turned fast at the noise to discover Watson hiding shyly in the corner of the office - unsure of his place. The inspector’s eyes squinted at him, then widened in recognition. 

“Doctor John Watson! What on Earth are you doing here?” Greg nearly yelled in surprise.

“Erm.. well-” Watson began.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock interrupted. He was typing furiously at the computer, yet completely aware of every movement in the room - naturally. 

Lestrade looked back and forth between the two, then stood on the heels of his feet, laughing. “I expected you to contain him, not the other way around!” 

Watson’s face was absolutely burning. He knew the situation was quite unprofessional. “I haven’t been contained at all, Inspector. I’ve taken some time off so…” He didn’t know what to say.

“Mhm. Happens to the best of us, don’t worry ‘bout it.” Lestrade turned to leave, changed his mind, turned back. “I do have to ask though, why you fired Sherlock as your client. I went through a lot of trouble looking for the best and you were it. What happened?” 

Watson’s face got even hotter. How could he explain that? “I’m really not the best, I assure you.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest. You’ll offend my investigative skills.”

Just in time, Sherlock lept away from the computer. “Gavin, you never had those to begin with, let’s be perfectly honest. That’s why you’ve hired me.”

“It’s Greg!” The inspector’s face reddened in anger. 

They left him fuming.

* * *

Running from the wrath of the detective inspector of Scotland Yard made Watson feel...invigorated. 

“Is this what days with you are like? Constant trouble, danger, and mystery? Or have I just gotten lucky somehow?” Watson immediately wished he could take back his words. They had just escaped him without consent. Besides, who would ever consider themselves to be _lucky_ to have gone through what Watson had since meeting Sherlock Holmes? John wanted to bury his face in his hands.

“I’m unsure, but it seems as if you do have a talent for attracting danger as well as I. Or at least, running towards it.” Sherlock had stopped walking and began to study him. They were standing near the street attempting to hail a cab, so far to no avail. 

“What?” Watson asked him, feeling uncomfortable under Sherlock’s studious gaze. He noticed that Sherlock’s eyes had become bluer since leaving 221B. It fascinated Watson to watch how often they seemed to change. 

“You seem to enjoy this type of lifestyle, so why did you leave it? You could have become a colonel, yourself.” 

Snippets of Watson’s past became forefront in his mind as if someone were laying out photos before him. A soldier. A gun. A rushed funeral. He really didn’t want to remember this. He hated talking about it. He wished it had never happened. Yet, something was urging him to talk. Watson _wanted_ to open up to Sherlock. 

“It was a mutual decision, between the force and I. My senior officer, he-” Watson took a deep, shaky breath. “I made it through training, but not much longer after that. I had a friend, Conor. He was kind, funny, and very Irish.” He laughed quietly at an old memory. Conor teasing him over his accent, before their comrades decided to join their campfire. Decided to ruin what was a good night. Watson’s smile faded. 

Sherlock was staying politely silent as he watched Watson filter through his emotions. He had stopped trying to get a cabbie’s attention, letting car after car pass them. Watson wondered what the detective was deducing from him now.

“He was also quite gay,” Watson continued, “and it didn’t help that he was transgender as well. We had trained together, gone to battle together, and yet I was the only one who showed him kindness. It was as if the others no longer saw him as a human being. Never made any sense - christ, _any sense._ It was as if he had snakes for hair instead of just being… Conor. I still don’t understand _why_ they were so angry. Can you imagine? Being ruthlessly attacked for being just who you are. For having dark hair or for being good at detective work? My god, it’s insane!” Watson took a breath to calm himself.

Sherlock’s face remained very stone-like, never moving. Watson looked at the sky, to help him say the next part. 

“Bullying is very looked down upon in any force. You’re supposed to be on the same team, after all. But that didn’t stop it from happening and when the leadership is also involved… the situation becomes nearly impossible to document. It’s hard to fight in a war, but it’s even harder to battle your own mind. Conor lost that battle and I wasn’t able to help him. I didn’t know what to do. Friendship alone was not enough to save him.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock finally said. 

Watson shook his head, fighting back tears as he remembered that shot in the dark of night. Seeing the empty sleeping bag next to him and running towards the sound - knowing it was already too late. 

“They knew I would talk... and they knew nobody would believe me. A new recruit against an entire unit? Didn’t stop me from trying, though.” Watson cleared his throat. “Anyways, after many arguments, I was handed the papers of discharge. The day after the funeral. I decided it was best to try and save people from a different sort of danger, got my degree, and here I am.”

“I see.” Sherlock remained emotionless as he hailed an oncoming cab. This one caught and they entered it promptly. The detective gave the address to his favourite lunch place and the driver set off. “Hungry?”

“Famished,” Watson answered honestly. 

“It was a good thing you did, for your comrade, I mean,” Sherlock muttered.

Watson turned away in shame. “Too little too late, I think. I just wish I could have done more.”

“You defied an army to save a friend, I think that’s quite honourable.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Sometimes it isn’t. But his death isn’t on you. You don’t need to keep trying to save everyone to make up for it.” 

Watson ended the debate with a sigh. “Regardless, it is what it is.”

Sherlock took the hint and sat back in his seat. “What do you think would have happened, if you had stayed in the army? Would you still have become my psychiatrist?”

“Perhaps… I would have stayed for years. Maybe I would have become an army doctor instead. Conor always seemed to push that idea. He said I seemed the type and I actually wanted to, but it would have separated us if I took a different path and I needed to… be there. Just in case. You’ve no idea how many times we had to fight against our own men. I couldn’t leave him to fight that alone. So I made a choice.”

“Strange how the world works,” Sherlock contemplated. “ Maybe we would have still met, but in a different way. Maybe years from now.”

“What could possibly bring a veteran army doctor and a consulting detective together?” Watson laughed. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps I needed a flatmate. I _had_ been considering it before I met you, for cost reasons.”

“Reasonably.” 

They laughed together and for a moment... everything felt at peace.

**Author's Note:**

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